


Multiplayer Game

by celestialskiff



Series: Little Little [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Bratting, Bubble Bath, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Little John - Freeform, Little Sherlock, Little/Little Dynamics, Non-Sexual Age Play, Playing, Self-Indulgent, Sherlock is a Brat, Thumb-sucking, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 11:59:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being little is no fun on your own. A prequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1149843">The Honeymoon Period</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Multiplayer Game

**Author's Note:**

> To everyone in the ageplay corner of Sherlock fandom. Thank you for indulging me.

Sherlock let John find him sucking his thumb in their second week living together. He'd got used to hiding his habit over the years, but since he knew John sucked his, too, he didn't see why it should be a secret. 

It came to him so naturally: his thumb slid into his mouth while he was thinking, or in breaks between work. He needed something to slow down his thoughts, but not to dull them, which the thumb did perfectly.

John came in just as he settled the thumb against his arched palate, fingers hooking over his nose. John didn't notice right away. He picked up the paper and went to sit in his chair, and then stopped, not sitting down. Sherlock felt John's gaze on him. It was a weight on his skin, and for a moment he regretted revealing this. People didn't always respond rationally: John, like Mycroft, might just make fun of him. 

“I know you do it too,” Sherlock said, letting the thumb slip out and rest against his lips. “I can tell.” 

“Can you,” John said. It was and wasn't a question. 

“It's easy to tell, it's there in the texture of your skin, and the way you touch your lips sometimes, when you're thinking. A lot of adults do it, John, more than you would expect.”

John sat down. 

“I see that all sorts of different people do it: business men, students, even politicians. I thought about doing a study.” There hadn't been enough data, but Sherlock didn't say this. John still wasn't speaking. “I saw no reason to hide,” Sherlock went on. “Since we both do it.” 

John coughed. “We're both adults. It's not something we should be proud of.” John was holding his right hand in his left, as though he was protecting it from Sherlock. 

“Don't be tedious,” Sherlock said. “I don't even smoke any more. I'm allowed to suck my thumb.” 

John's mouth twitched. He pulled the paper off the table and flicked through it. His hand didn't go anywhere near his lips. After a moment, he began to talk about an article discussing a series of burglaries in east London. 

Sherlock didn't listen. He watched John's mouth, feeling exposed. 

*

He'd thought he might bring his blanket out of his room sometimes, just to hold when he was on the sofa, but he didn't. John was being so reticent about something as simple as thumb-sucking, and Sherlock didn't want to show him anything else. 

He missed his blanket when he woke one night, having fallen asleep on the sofa, his chin cushioned uncomfortably on his chest. The room was dark, but the dying fire cast flickering shadows on the walls, and for a moment they were the marks of murderers or vindictive monsters from children's books. He shook his head and he was Sherlock again, and unafraid, but the feeling remained. 

Then he heard a distant, gasping breath, and a sob, choked off and held in the chest. He stood up. His neck hurt, but he didn't stretch it out. He still felt vulnerable, and it seemed safer to keep himself small. A part of him said John wanted to be left alone, but another part longed for the comfort of a warm body, and didn't want John to be afraid. 

Barefoot, he couldn't go up the stairs loudly, but he let each foot fall on the steps as loudly as he could, so John wouldn't be alarmed. He pushed the door open. Despite his precautions, John hadn't heard him, and he started when the door opened. One hand was pressed to his face, and had been covering his eyes. In the other, he squeezed a ragged teddy-bear. 

“Go away,” he said, his voice rough. 

That sort of command meant nothing to either adult Sherlock or the littler version of himself, and he sat next to John. John was sitting in the middle of the double-bed, and he didn't shift over, so Sherlock's hip was pressed against John's side. Sherlock felt warmth radiating from him. 

“Please, Sherlock, please don't.” And John was crying, put his hand up to cover his mouth, as though he was scared to make a sound. As though making a sound would be wrong. Sherlock remembered that from his own childhood, being embarrassed by the thoughts he had, his own fear, and hiding it. Covering his mouth, biting his skin, trying to suppress the crying, the horror. 

He put his arm around John's heaving shoulders, and pressed his pointy chin into John's collarbone. “I had a bad dream too,” he said. “There was some kind of monster, and when I woke up the shadows all around reminded me of it. I dream a lot that I'm being eaten alive by leviathans.” 

John nodded. He wasn't pulling away. The sobs were deep in his chest, and Sherlock could see he couldn't stop them, no matter how much he wanted to. “It's just us,” Sherlock said. “Don't worry, no one can hear you.”

“Oh God.” John's voice was a gasp, a groan, and he buried his face in his hands. Sherlock stroked John's back, feeling the tremors. His feet were cold and he wanted to put them under the covers, but he thought that perhaps John would object. He stroked along John's spine with his right hand, and slid his left thumb into his mouth. Even here, it was very reassuring. 

Eventually, John subsided. He looked up, blinking, his eyes raw. 

Sherlock slid his thumb out of his mouth. “I don't want to go,” he said. 

John rubbed his face. “Why not?” 

“There are monsters in the living room, and my feet are cold.” His voice slid into monotone and that made it more childish than usual. 

John shook his head. His put his hand on Sherlock's arm. “You are freezing.”

“Can I get under the covers?” 

John swallowed, and ducked his head. “Yeah,” he said. “OK.” 

Sherlock scrambled under, and John lay down on his side, facing away from Sherlock. The bedside light was still on: Sherlock turned it off and curled up against John's back. He pressed his cold feet against John's warm calves. John hissed. “Christ. I never said we could cuddle.” 

“I want to,” Sherlock said. He didn't say please. He rubbed his nose against the back of John's neck, and looped his arm around John's torso. John went stiff, and then, after a moment, relaxed. 

He was quiet. Then, distinct in the still room, Sherlock heard John's thumb in his mouth, the soft, familiar suck. Sherlock smiled. He shut his eyes. 

*

He woke before John. He'd never been able to sleep for long stretches. His feet and arms were deliciously warm, and he wriggled his toes, drawing himself upright slowly. John was still turned away from him, mouth open, hand lying next to his face on the pillow. The teddy-bear, a white one, scuffed but too new to be from John's childhood, was tucked under John's chin. 

John murmured sleepily, and rolled over. When he saw Sherlock, his expression changed, his face open with anxiety. He stuffed the bear under the blankets. 

“Don't panic,” Sherlock said. “Grown-ups can still have bears. I have a security blanket. That's worse.” 

John rubbed his face. “God, I'm tired.” He wasn't pulling away from Sherlock, his body a warm shape next to Sherlock's own. “How are you so open about these things? Normal people aren't.” 

“Because I want to tell you. Because you feel the same.” 

“It must make it easier, knowing everything about everyone.” 

Often, it just made the sense of isolation worse. Sherlock bunched the duvet between his fingers. “Not really. Just when it's you.” 

John sighed. “I tried to stop. You know. Wanting to comfort. Have these feelings. Still sucking my fucking thumb after all these years. But after. After I got back, it got harder. I couldn't see the point any more.” 

“There isn't any point.” Sherlock nudged his foot against John's leg. “This is good, I'm glad you're talking about it. I can be more open in front of you now.”

“Oh yes. You used to be a model of discretion.” 

They didn't talk about it much more. But they had toast together in the kitchen, and later, when he was watching TV, John's thumb slid into his mouth. 

*

Two nights later, Sherlock was wired. He felt hot and his skin was too tight and he was full of a nameless, boundless energy. He got the Lego kit he'd bought a few weeks ago out, and tried to play with it, but it wasn't complicated enough, and he couldn't be soothed. 

He wanted John. 

John was in bed. 

He made his way upstairs, switching on the landing light as he did so. He knew John hadn't been sleeping well lately, but when Sherlock pushed the door open John seemed to be in a heavy slumber, his arm thrown over his face, the teddy-bear caught in the crook of his arm. Part of Sherlock felt guilty. 

He switched the light on. 

John murmured in his sleep. Sherlock sat down on the bed next to him and tugged at the blanket. “Wake up, wake up.”

John started into consciousness. He sat up, rubbing at his face. “What's wrong? Is there a case?” 

“Play with me,” Sherlock said, tugging at John's pillow. 

John flopped back. “What time is it?”

“I don't know. Half three, something like that. I can't sleep. Play with me.” 

“Jesus. You don't need a flatmate, you need a fucking nursemaid.” 

“You're boring when you're asleep.”

“I'm not getting up.”

“Yes you are.” Sherlock looked at John's wrinkled, sleepy face. There were dark circles around his eyes, creases on his cheek. Sherlock reached around him and snatched the bear out from under his arm. 

John yelped—an indignant, childish sound. Ha. He was slipping, and Sherlock thought he'd be less likely to want to sleep and be sensible if he was little. “Give him back.”

“Not until you play with me.”

John lunged for him, but Sherlock was quicker, dodging around his legs and scuttling down the stairs. “You inconsiderate dick!” he heard John shout, but John was thundering after him, and that was what Sherlock wanted. Sherlock clutched the bear close to his chest (it smelt like mothballs and John) and slammed the living room door shut after himself, so John would have to open it again. 

He ran around the kitchen table, ducked into the space between the wall and the fridge, and then he had nowhere to go. He swung around. The kitchen was still dark, but he could see John, made eerie by the city light outside, charging towards him. 

John lunged for him. Sherlock hid the bear behind his back and bared his teeth. John grabbed him, warm hands on Sherlock's ribs. He pressed his face up close to Sherlock's. Sherlock wriggled. “Give him back.” 

Sherlock was cupping the bear protectively at the small of his back, but that left his sides exposed. John's fingers were hard, pressing tight into his skin. He dropped the bear and leapt at John. 

They weren't fighting properly—they could really hurt each other if they did that. Some part of them knew this was play-fighting, but it was still satisfying. They grabbed and pinched and tugged each other's hair, and spit. Sherlock scratched at John's face, and John crushed his wrist in his hand. 

Then they were on the floor, wrestling with each other, and Sherlock was gasping, almost laughing even as his nipped John's arm. He hadn't had this much fun in ages. 

John won by immobilising Sherlock under him, Sherlock's arm squashed under his own body, John's hands biting into his shoulders. Sherlock panted, looking up at him. 

“That hurts.” 

“Should've thought of that before you stole Barry,” John said. 

“Your bear is called Barry?” Sherlock rocked his hips, but John was a lead. 

“Yes. Where did you put him?” 

“He's behind the fridge.” 

“Are you going to launch at me if I get up?”

Sherlock shook his head. “You have me subdued, O mighty warrior.” 

John snorted. “I fucking doubt that.” 

He got off Sherlock, and Sherlock sat up, stretching his sore wrists. John switched the light on. They'd knocked over a chair, but otherwise the kitchen looked the same as always. John tugged Barry out from the gap beside the fridge, and picked crumbs off his head. “He's all dusty.” 

“He already smelt weird,” Sherlock said. He was still sitting on the floor, and John towered over him, hands gently smoothing the bear's fur. 

“He was in storage when I was in the army,” John said. “That's why he smells fusty.” 

“Where'd you get him?”

“Old girlfriend.” John looked away, unwilling to let Sherlock prise too much of that subject from him. His eyes rested on the Lego on the table. “Is that yours?”

“I was trying to entertain myself while you were busy.”

“I was asleep.” John sighed. “I'm awake now. And hungry.”

“You're always hungry.” Sherlock got up. He'd liked being down on the floor with John. “I'll make you an omelette.” 

“No you won't. God knows what you'd put in it. We'll have tea and biscuits and then I'm going back to bed, and I don't know why I put up with you.” 

John didn't go back to his bed. They messed around with the Lego, and Sherlock lured John into his room with the promise of more. Sherlock had the makings of a medieval castle, and a set of knights. John liked the knights, and Sherlock liked building. 

“Can't believe I'm doing this,” John said, after twenty minutes. He was sitting on Sherlock's bed with the bear on his lap. There were Hob-Nob crumbs at the corner of his mouth, and he looked tired but relaxed. 

“It's better with you here,” Sherlock said. 

Sherlock fell asleep eventually, curled up against his pillows, his special blanket fisted in his hand. When he woke up, John was still there, snoring into his hair, the teddy-bear trapped between them. 

*

“You made me pay again!” John charged up the stairs after Sherlock. Mrs Hudson shouted something incomprehensible behind them. 

Sherlock shrugged his coat off and was on the way to the loo. He hadn't wanted to go at the police station after the case because the loos there made him feel funny, and he really had to go now. He'd dashed out as soon as the taxi had stopped. 

John grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. The living room was dim, rain spattering the window. John had wet hair and he was sprayed in mud: shirt, trousers, even his forehead. Sherlock vaguely remembered John falling over when he'd been running through the park. And had he left John outside at some point? John seemed sodden. Sherlock's hair was wet too, but he wasn't as wet as John. 

“Tell me off later,” Sherlock said, but John had an iron grip on his arm. 

“You made me pay again. Why do we even have to take bloody taxis? I wouldn't, if it weren't for you. And I'm freezing, and you're a dick, and I'm sick of it.” 

“You had fun,” Sherlock said, because he knew John had. He squirmed. 

“That's not the point.”

“Isn't it?” He shoved at John, trying to free his arm but John held on, and grabbed Sherlock's chin, jerking his face downwards so they were eye-to-eye. Sherlock bit his lip. “I'm going to piss on the floor if you don't let me go.” 

“You wouldn't,” John said. “God, you're such a child.” 

“Maybe,” Sherlock said, and it was petulant, childish Sherlock, made littler by the pressure on his bladder and his discomfort, that tried to tug away. “Come _on_ , John.” 

“You should suffer a bit.” 

Sherlock twisted his legs together. “Just punch me in the face and get over it.” 

John grunted. “You say things like that and it takes the good out of it.” 

“Let _go_ of me then!” Sherlock tugged at John's hair. John's hair was too short to get much purchase on, but the tug seemed to be all John needed. They were fighting again.

It was different from the other night. John was less gentle, scratching at Sherlock, fists finding purchase in more painful places, and blows harder. Sherlock was uncomfortable, bladder aching, nervous and tired. He wasn't sure if John was little or grown-up, what kind of game they were playing, if this was serious or not. He wasn't sure what head-space he was in, but whatever it was, he felt vulnerable, unwilling to fight back with the same force as John. 

He wasn't angry, he just wanted a wee. 

In that state, John overpowered him easily. John was better at this than Sherlock, and right now he was also more willing to hurt and to be hurt. Sherlock scrabbling at his chest didn't even make him flinch. He easily manoeuvred Sherlock onto his back, holding him down by the shoulders. 

Sherlock wriggled. “Feel better?”

John's face was red, he was biting his lip. Sherlock saw the frustration, but he didn't know what to do about it. He tried to push John off. 

John tightened his grip, and straddled Sherlock. For a moment their eyes were locked, and Sherlock thought John might relent. John was chewing at his lip, and he looked torn between letting go and hitting him again. 

Whichever it was, Sherlock wished he'd hurry up. 

Then John's weight shifted, and suddenly his body was pressed down on Sherlock's pelvis. “Got you now, you...”

Sherlock hissed through his teeth. Oh, God, he had to go, he had to go _now_...

“Let me up!” he yelped urgently, but John didn't move, and it was almost too late for that anyway. The pressure on his abdomen was too much, he had to go, he had tried so hard to be an adult and make it to the toilet, but he was struggling, and it hurt so much, and it was all John's fault anyway. 

Letting go wasn't a conscious decision. Sherlock was aware, first, of a sudden release in pressure, and he thought for a second John had relented and shifted his weight. But then he felt the warm heat rushing down his legs. He shut his eyes. A blush was rising on his cheeks, and he felt a wet sob in his throat. He turned his face away. 

“Sherlock, are you...” 

He felt John get off him. He was still going, he'd really needed to go, and he couldn't stop it now. There was no point in trying. 

He heard John swear, and then he felt John's hand on his face, warm and trembling slightly. “It's all right,” John was saying.

“It's your fault,” Sherlock whispered. His voice was husky, and tears lurked somewhere. Neither Sherlock nor his littler self wanted to let them out. 

“I know.” John's fingers stroked back Sherlock's hair, and then wavered and moved away. Sherlock desperately didn't want John to stop touching him, not now. 

He reached for John's wrist, and held on. His bum was wet and warm, and his legs were damp, and the floor underneath him was soaked, and he was little and he couldn't help it, and he didn't want to be left alone. 

“It's OK,” John said. Sherlock pulled himself upright. John was squatting on the floor next to him. Sherlock pressed his face into John's chest. He was desperately afraid that John would push him away, but John held on. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's torso, and they rocked each other. 

“I'm sorry too,” Sherlock mumbled, thinking about John's anger earlier. 

“Do you even know what you did?” 

“No.”

John laughed. “You need a bath.”

“So do you, you're all cold and muddy,” Sherlock said. 

“That's your fault.” 

“Let's have a bath.” Sherlock pulled himself upright. “I have a sailing ship somewhere.” 

John stayed on the floor, looking up at him. Sherlock could imagine that the glistening pool of urine next to him was John's own, and that John was the one who wasn't in control of himself. But Sherlock's trousers were too wet and warm for that. “We can't have a bath together,” John said. 

“Why not?” Sherlock said. He wrapped his arms around his chest for comfort. “Don't leave me alone because of your boring sense of propriety.” 

Sherlock stripped while John ran the bath. He wondered if his clothes could be saved, but it was a distant worry. Another Sherlock could think about that tomorrow. John turned away from him to strip too. Sherlock wondered if they were supposed to look at each other's genitals, or not look. In the end, he looked at John's, because he was curious. John had a normal penis with soft blond curls around it. Boring. 

“This is weird,” John said. 

“I've got bubbles,” Sherlock said, and poured some in. The water surged invitingly. 

John shook his head. “You buy bubble bath, but you can't buy milk?” 

Sherlock got in first and pulled his knees up to his chest. He could easily take up the whole bath, but he wanted John to have room. John chewed his lip, and then he got in too, and started scrubbing himself vigorously. 

They were quiet. The water splashed against the edges of the bath. 

Sherlock waited until John's hair was wet, and then he splashed him. 

“Last time we fought it didn't end well,” John said. 

“This is different,” Sherlock said. “We're not angry now.” And he splashed John again. 

They ended up laughing, with bubbles on the faces and in their hair, and plenty of water on the floor. The splashing helped. They relaxed, spreading their legs out, limbs tangling under the hot water. It was weird, Sherlock supposed, but it was nice too. He always wanted to splash in a bath with someone. 

“We need a safe word,” John said, looking at the glistening taps past Sherlock's shoulder. 

“Why?” Sherlock knew what one was, he'd read about it and decided it might be useful information. He wasn't surprised that John knew. 

“So next time I know when you say “stop or I'll piss myself” you mean it.” 

“Did you really think I didn't mean it?”

“It's hard, with you.” 

Sherlock splashed water back and forth between his hands. “I don't think we need one. This isn't sex.” 

John coughed. “But it's something. And we could hurt each other.” 

“Maybe it needed to happen,” Sherlock said. 

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we wouldn't be having a nice bath now, if we hadn't had a fight.” 

John moved to put his thumb in his mouth and then tugged it away because it was wet. It made Sherlock smile. He did something similar when he needed to think and his thumb was sticky with chemicals. “You wouldn't have to use it,” John said. 

“Fine.” Sherlock sent a crest of bubbles spinning towards John. “Our safeword can be 'safeword'.” 

*

Sherlock never meant to lose the bear (Barry). He knew it was important. But he also needed it to make a point, and the excitement of the case was rushing in his ears, and he charged up the stairs to John's room, and grabbed it. 

When the child took the bear in her damp fingers, Sherlock thought, “It's fine, we can get it back.” He thought it distantly, because there were more important things. He didn't feel John stiffen by his side. The girl stroked the bear's white, tangled fur tenderly, and she gripped it against her chest. She stopped sobbing long enough to talk coherently. 

When the man who would later be held on suspicion of human trafficking grabbed the child and she dropped the bear, Sherlock wasn't thinking about it at all. His mind was completely focused on the man's alibi, and John wouldn't have blamed him for that. 

The bear fell into the street below them. The child crawled over the roof towards John, away from Sherlock and her kidnapper. Sherlock saw John's hands tracing awkwardly over her back. John was the one who carried her down the fire escape and gave her to the police. She was trembling in his arms. 

At the station, Sherlock felt adrenaline leaving his body in a wave. His legs were trembling, his jaw loose. He imagined being at home with John, wrapping themselves in blankets, maybe letting John pick something to watch on TV. Sherlock hated John's TV choices when he was an adult, but John was very good at finding children's TV with pirates in it. John. Curled up next to him, with... 

“We'll find him,” Sherlock hissed as John staggered towards him. He'd been interviewed by the social workers, and he looked drawn. His clothes were crumpled where the child had been clinging to him. What was her name again? It didn't matter. 

He looked blankly at Sherlock. 

“We'll find Barry, John.”

“No, we won't. He's... It's gone.”

“I'm good at finding things.” 

“It feel down fourteen stories onto a dual carriageway. I think it got run over. Anyway, it's gone.” 

Sherlock chewed his thumb. There was an expression on John's face he didn't like. “I'll look.”

“Let's just go home.” John seemed to sway with tiredness. He looked blurry around the edges. 

Sherlock followed him, for once without argument. John found a taxi, and got in stiffly, not seeming to notice whether or not Sherlock followed him. His eyes were glazed, but they didn't shut, and he didn't speak or seem to hear anything that was said. 

Sherlock let John get out first, and then he paid. He was glad he'd remembered to bring his wallet. He made his way slowly upstairs. John had put the kettle on. He was standing next to it, holding a mug as though he didn't know what to do with it. 

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have taken Barry,” Sherlock said. 

“No.” John picked up a teaspoon and put it down again. “It was kind. She needed something. After everything...”

“I wasn't being kind, I just wanted her to talk.” 

“I know. It was still kind. I'm a grown-up. I didn't need him. It.” John poured boiling water into the mug and then he put the kettle down and gripped the counter with both hands. 

Sherlock touched his back, between the shoulder blades. He didn't know what to do. 

“We've been... indulging ourselves too much. Or I have,” John said. “It's just... It was nice to feel safe from time to time.” 

“We don't do anything wrong,” Sherlock said. He took the cup away from John. He seemed about to drink the hot water, and he hadn't even put a tea bag in it. “I'll get you another bear. A better one. Or one the same, I'm sure I could find it.” 

John's face crumpled. He sat down on one of the kitchen chairs, and put his hand over his mouth. “Or something different?” Sherlock said. “What do you want?”

John's voice was rough. “Not to want this. I can't want this. I can't be like this. I don't deserve it. Not after... Everything that Teresa had been through. It's not right that I'm the one who needs comfort.” 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself. “I don't understand,” he said. And he didn't: he didn't know why John felt guilty. 

John looked at him, somehow defiant and lost at the same time. He put his hands on the table and squeezed the edge, hard, harder. Sherlock could see the strain in the forearms. “Oh, fuck,” John said. Then he let go, and rocked himself backwards and forwards. The room silent aside from John's rough breaths. The chair squeaked under him. 

Then John stopped and looked at his hands, and he said in a different voice, “I feel very little, Sherlock.” 

That was something Sherlock could understand. He came over and wrapped his arms around John's shoulders. John buried his face in Sherlock stomach, and Sherlock could feel him shudder against him, and sob. He was easy to enfold in Sherlock's arms when he was sitting and Sherlock was standing, and Sherlock held him as close as he could and rocked him, rocked him. 

When John's tears eased, Sherlock took his hand and led him into his bedroom. The bed was messy, Sherlock's blanket thrown over the pillow, a scattering of Lego on Sherlock's bedside table. Sherlock sat down and pulled John with him, and they sat so close John was almost in Sherlock's lap. “Do you want comfort, or distractions?” Sherlock said. 

John rubbed his face, and then he slid his thumb into his mouth and rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder. He was compact and easy to hold and Sherlock smoothed back his hair and listened to the soft, sucking sounds he made. 

“Are you too little to make choices?” Sherlock asked. “I feel like that sometimes.”

John didn't say anything, so Sherlock let him go, and knelt down to take John's shoes off. Then he got his special blanket and gave it to John so he'd have something to cling to. He took off his own shoes and lay down next to John and spread the duvet over both of them. Usually Sherlock would prefer games to cuddles, but John looked so drawn, and he felt tired himself, worn-out and trembly. 

He tucked himself up behind John, his arm around John's middle, John's head under his chin. He was holding John as close as he could, and John felt dense and secure in his arms. 

He popped his own thumb into his mouth, and stroked John's arm with his free hand, and listened as John's breaths evened out. John's limbs went slack. Sherlock shut his own eyes then, safe under the covers, wrapped around John. It was hard, being little, but it was much better now he could share it with someone.


End file.
